


Medicinal

by Toft



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Hugs, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 11:40:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19108918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toft/pseuds/Toft
Summary: John thinks Harold needs some help relaxing.





	Medicinal

The suite Finch got for them in DC is nice. Two bedrooms, office and meeting area, view of the Capitol, huge walk-in shower _and_ tub, which he’s never missed since that time John caught a bullet graze on the shoulder and Shaw was such a tight-ass about him getting the dressings wet. Nice. Only problem is, it has Finch in it, and Finch is driving him crazy. Granted, it’s been a tough few weeks. Months. Years. But John has never seen him like this. With the threat of Samaritan coming online, the relocation to DC, Root out in the wind and Shaw with her, Harold is rattled, and that puts John on edge. He’s used to being calm for Harold, letting Harold lean on him, but he doesn’t have much calm to spare right now, and Harold’s slightly-too-wide eyes, the way he keeps picking things up and putting them down again as he wanders around the room spinning his wheels, it’s grating on him.

“We should be back on the Hill.”

John continues to lay out his tools for stripping and cleaning his sidearms.

“McCourt’s going to be in session for the next four hours, Finch. You need a break. You’re still not hungry?”

Harold tugs fretfully at his jacket. “I couldn’t possibly eat.”

“Why don’t you go check out the hotel’s facilities. Take a swim.”

“Swim?” Harold’s voice almost cracks. He stares at John as if he’s lost his mind. John shrugs.

“Okay, so you don’t want to swim.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me, Mr Reese?”

“I’m saying maybe you need to relax a little.”

“Oh, all right, I’ll just build a server here in this hotel room.”

John looks at him, eyebrows raised. Harold collapses into a chair with a sigh. 

“There are very few things that relax me.”

“I’ve got a pack of cards…”

Harold stares at his hands for a moment. “Oh, all right.”

Relieved, John pushes his cleaning equipment aside and pulls out his deck. “Texas Hold’em?”

“I’d prefer Gin Rummy.”

“Sure. Jokers wild, Aces high, sets of three, runs of three?”

“I prefer playing with two decks.”

“I only have one.”

“Fine.”

They play a couple of hands. Finch wins both. After he catches John out with a hand full of face cards, he throws down his cards in disgust.

“This isn’t distracting me.”

He looks small, miserable, and nervous energy radiates from him. John wants to touch him. He’s had this urge before, to just pull Harold in and wrap him up, hold him until he settles down. The desire to do it now is sharp enough to startle him. And suddenly he thinks, well, it would sure as hell distract him.

“Hey, Harold,” he says, standing before he can stop himself. Two steps around the table. “Stand up.”

Harold stands jerkily, eyes wide in alarm. “What?” 

John wraps his arms around him. Harold makes a startled noise. His whole body feels rigid.

“What –”

“Shh.”

John holds on to Harold. He rubs his back a couple of times. Harold shifts suddenly, as if he’s losing his footing, and almost stumbles forward into John, into a more natural hold, although his arms are still limp by his side.

“Why are you…” he says, muffled by John’s blazer jacket, then trails off, apparently uncertain of what, exactly, John is doing.

“It’s medicinal,” John says. It sounds like nonsense. He had, he realizes now, expected Harold to bristle and push him away and go hide in the bathroom for forty-five minutes and leave him in peace to clean his guns. Instead, Harold is breathing quietly in his arms. He feels calm washing into him, inexorable relief. Harold’s safe. John has him. He’s clinging, he realizes. He can’t bring himself to care.

The longer the silence goes on, the more John realizes how awkward it’s going to be when it ends. He wishes they’d taken off their jackets. He wishes he could feel Harold’s skin. Abruptly, Harold lifts his arms and wraps them around John’s torso, smoothing a hand down over his back. “If you wanted a hug,” he says, his voice wobbling, “you could have said.”

John can feel Harold’s breath against his throat, damp and warm. A terrible unfolding is happening in his head, so many things he wants from Harold, ways he wants to touch him. 

“Could I?”

“True, it isn’t part of our… usual repertoire.”

“Fine. I want a hug.” It isn’t so hard to say. It’s the least of the things he wants.

“All right.” 

Harold strokes his back, and John concentrates on holding him tight but not too tight, listening as Harold’s breathing slows and John’s heartbeat with it. At last, he forces himself to loosen his grip on Harold’s jacket and pull back.

“Better?” 

Harold looks up at him, forehead creased with concern. They should both be dead, a hundred times, and maybe their time is running out at last. John leans down and kisses him on the mouth. He feels Harold’s sharp intake of breath and freezes, but then Harold takes his face between his hands and kisses him back. It’s thorough and relentless, and John groans with want and relief, terrified. Harold has his hands on his chest, he’s pushing him backward, and John goes, goes wherever Harold wants him, which turns out to be an armchair in this stupid fucking office suite so Harold can lean over him and put his tongue in his mouth and John will do this absolutely anywhere.

“I’d like to undress you,” Harold gasps as John nuzzles at his neck, experimenting with teeth. He feels drunk. “But I don’t think we have time.” He starts unbuttoning John’s shirt anyway. John stares up at him, dazed. Harold runs his palm over John’s bare chest. John almost can’t believe the way Harold is looking at him, wide-eyed, hungry.

“I’ll suck you,” John blurts out, “If you want.”

Harold’s breath comes out of him with a little _ah_ sound and he folds down onto the floor in front of John’s chair like someone’s punched him. John sits up in alarm, but Harold’s hands are firm and warm on his thighs, still, his face concentrated as he slides John’s belt through the buckle and unbuttons his fly.

“Harold?”

“I want to, first,” Harold says. “Will you let me?”

John falls back into the chair, mouth open, when Harold, eyes flickering up to his face, eases his dick out of his shorts and leans down to rub his cheek up its length. The first touch of his lips and tongue against the tip is a shock that runs up John’s spine like a thousand volts.

“Jesus,” John whispers, “Harold.”

Harold sits back, takes off his glasses, and puts them carefully on the table. His hands are shaking, John notices distantly. “I haven’t done this in a while, forgive me if I’m rusty.”

He leans down again, his breath hot on John’s cock, and takes him into his mouth, hungry and messy at first, then finding a hot suction and rhythm that drives John wild, makes him grip the side of the chair desperately so he doesn’t thrust up into Harold’s mouth.

“Harold,” he groans, warning, and Harold pulls off.

“I’ll swallow,” he says, breathless, the same avid look on his face. “Let me. Can you come like this?”

John nearly does, right then, hips thrusting uselessly up out of the chair. Harold smiles sweetly as he goes back down and holds John’s hips down hard so John can buck against the pressure of them, and John comes in his mouth, unbelieving, his orgasm seizing and shaking him until he’s weak with it. Harold swallows him down and watches him come, his thumbs smoothing over John’s hips. When John’s finished, he slides his fingers over John’s wet, half-hard cock as John shivers.

“I’ll do you now,” John murmurs, and props himself up on arms that barely want to hold his weight. Harold crawls up into his lap and kisses him. John can feel him shaking. “Bed.”

He loses his shirt on the way to the bedroom, and Harold kicks off his pants, almost falling onto the bed with John on top of him. All the breath goes out of Harold, and he says, “Yes, _yes_ ,” and pulls John’s hand to where his erection is hard and straining against his boxers, already damp and sticky.

“You sure you don’t want -”

“Oh God, just –”

“Okay, Harold, I got you.”

John lies half over him, bracing his own weight so as not to crush him, and spits in his palm before taking Harold’s leaking cock out. Harold whines, straining eagerly up against him, and “Shh, I got you,” John says again, moved and tender. He strokes Harold, jerks him, and when Harold breathes, eyes closed, “Kiss me,” John does, and drinks in Harold’s moan when he comes all over his bare chest.

They lie together, catching their breath.

“We should have done this years ago,” Harold murmurs at last. “It’s wonderful stress relief.”

John presses his face against Harold’s ruined shirt, and laughs.


End file.
